Death in Tuscany (55 page)

'Call him then, but only to make sure he's still alive and to say hello. Find some excuse. In the meantime I'll tell my men to send a patrol to keep an eye on his apartment. From now on we'll protect him as if he were the President of the Republic himself, and he won't even know, don't worry. But you know what I think?'

'What?'

'I'm willing to bet that when we put the handcuffs on him, he'll breathe a sigh of relief.'

Once they had made their respective phone calls, they carried on discussing Ferrara's theory.

It was getting dark. Petra asked Anna if she'd like to stay for dinner. After a slight hesitation, she accepted.

'There's one weak point in the theory' Ferrara said as his wife walked away.

'Which is?'

'Simonetta and Massimo. If Viktor killed Palladiani, why didn't he kill them, too? Why should he take them with him?'

Anna Giulietti lowered her voice in order not to be overheard by Petra. 'I'm sorry, Michele, I know what you're thinking
...
He could have done it later

'Yes,' he replied simply, and Anna was surprised by the cool, clear-headed way he made that statement, as if the mere thought of it were not unbearable in itself. 'But once again why? And why not straightaway? Why not there?'

'Perhaps to create a false lead. It certainly deceived the Carabinieri. This is assuming your theory is correct.'

'I've thought of that, Anna, and I don't buy it. Do you really think someone like him, blinded by rage, and leading an underground existence anyway, would bother to work out a clever plan to throw people off the scent? No, we're not dealing with some sophisticated mastermind in a film, the man's a brute, a wild animal, someone who raped his own sister, someone who exploits women and traffics in drugs
...
an Eastern Mafioso.'

'So what, then?' Anna asked, not knowing the answer.

'I don't know. That's what worries me
...
I don't know.'

36

From early in the morning on Monday 20 August, the offices of the Florence
Squadra Mobile
were a hive of activity. Keeping in constant telephone contact with Anna Giulietti, Ferrara and his men prepared arrest warrants, to be signed by the deputy prosecutor, for all the men identified on the video. The charge: accessory to murder and possession and use of narcotic substances.

For all the names on the membership list of the Lodge of the Innocents, whether or not they had been identified on the video, search warrants were also prepared, together with information indicating that the men would also be charged with the offence of criminal conspiracy.

Anna Giulietti signed the warrants, and the operation was under way.

And so the search began. It was made more difficult by the summer exodus which had scattered the men all over Italy and abroad. More than sixty police officers - superintendents, inspectors and constables - were suddenly handed the task of carrying out the deputy prosecutor's orders in the shortest time possible.

The sound of screeching tyres as police cars drove out of

the Headquarters car park could be heard almost constantly from the courtyard.

Ferrara gave his men their instructions with cold efficiency, but his mind was elsewhere: he was thinking of Massimo Verga, which meant he was also thinking of Salvatore Laprua and Viktor Makregi.

He had Viktor's identikit in front of him, and from time to time he went back to studying it, powerless with anger, in a vain attempt to find in it some secret it stubbornly refused to divulge. It seemed impossible that this face with its vulgar features, its clear eyes, blond crew-cut hair, flat nose and prominent cheekbones, could have the power of life and death over his closest friend. But wasn't it that power, absolute and yet easy - because nothing is easier than to snap the thin thread that connects us to life - which made murderers contemptible, all of them, without exception?

By late morning, everyone had been phoned and all the orders had been given. Ferrara sent for Ciuffi, hoping for news, but there was none.

'What kind of informers do you have, Luigi?' he protested.

'It's not that, chief. It's just that this guy is tough, and he's smart. If it really is Viktor Makregi we're dealing with, Interpol lost all trace of him in 1999. They believe he's still in Moldova, which is where he was last seen, just think about that. . . Anyway, they have him classified as a leading light of the Albanian underworld, highly dangerous and extremely violent. We know for certain that he slaughtered a whole rival gang once in Tirana. He's not some two-bit pusher, chief.'

'Track him down, Luigi. He's the key to finding Massimo Verga, I know it, I can feel it. . . Flush him out, and I promise . . .'

'No need to promise anything, chief. Just finding him will be enough to make me happy for the next ten years!' Ferrara knew he meant it.

The breakthrough came early in the afternoon, with a phone call from Mazzorelli, the warden of Sollicciano prison, whom he had met during the investigation into the series of homosexual murders the previous year.

'I may have good news for you, Chief Superintendent,' Mazzorelli said.

'Is it Emilio Zancarotti? Has he decided to cooperate?'

'That's what he says. And he also says he has some important things to tell you.'

'Can you have him brought here? I have to stay here, we've got a major operation in progress, and I need to monitor it constantly. But I need to hear what Zancarotti has to say urgently'

Mazzorelli thought it over. 'It won't be easy, just like that. . . but for you I think it can be done.'

'Thanks - you don't know what a favour you're doing me!' 'Well, I owe you one, Chief Superintendent.'

‘I’m ready to talk because you promised to put me into the witness protection programme and because I don't want to go back inside. You have to tell the warden those two are going to kill me . . .'

'Calm down, Zancarotti.'

He was sitting in handcuffs opposite Ferrara, Rizzo and Ciuffi. Two of the prison guards who had come with him were standing guard outside the door of Ferrara's office. Fanti had asked them if they wanted coffee, but they had refused. So had Zancarotti, but he had asked for a glass of water.

'Do you want me to have your handcuffs removed?' Ferrara asked, watching him take the glass with both hands.

'What difference would that make? I want you to do what I said.'

'Hold your horses. If what you have to tell me is important, and there's something to back it up, I'll get you into the programme, you have my word on that. Especially if what you tell me puts your life in danger.'

The man grimaced. 'You don't know Zi Turi. He's a tough old guy. He'll have you killed just like that, if he wants to. If he knows I've talked, he'll have me killed in prison. Look what happened to that journalist. I'll tell you everything, but you've got to protect me, get me away from here, out of the country

'Start talking, and we'll see. So, you know Salvatore Laprua, also known as Zi Turi, quite well, even though the other day you told us you didn't. Start from there. Where did you meet him for the first time?'

'In Viareggio, seven years ago. I was desperate, I owed money left, right and centre. I thought I'd find work more easily in a holiday resort, any kind of work, a barman, whatever . . . Someone told me there was this guy, the harbour people called him the Sicilian, who was looking for people for his trawlers. I don't know anything about fishing, I'm even a bit scared of the sea, but you know how it is, beggars can't be choosers . . . He took me on, but he didn't always make me go out to sea with the others. They were all Sicilians like him, not exactly talkative . . . oh, I'm sorry

'It doesn't matter. Yes, I'm Sicilian, too, and it's true, I don't talk much. I prefer to listen. Go on.'

'The times he didn't send me out to sea, he took me with him to different places. He said he had enemies, and I was his bodyguard. After a while, he let me have a gun. He started to trust me. Then after about a year . . . yes, it was in 1995, he promised he'd set me up in a bar in Florence if I helped him with some important business he had. Then he made me go out in the boat, sometimes on long trips. We'd go a long way out, where the three trawlers would meet up with a freighter. They'd unload a lot of crates. They looked like fresh fish, but inside they were full of bags of drugs.'

Ciuffi threw Ferrara a triumphant look: he'd been right. This part of the story sounded substantially true. It still had to be confirmed, of course, but it seemed highly unlikely that he would be making it up.

'And where did these drugs end up?'

'Zi Turi didn't even see them. They carried them up to Carrara, where he runs some marble quarries. I never saw them with my own eyes, but I heard about them. That's where the guys who gave us the drugs on the autostrada came from - the quarries.'

'You can tell me about that later. What I want to know now is why he should have helped you to open a bar in Florence.'

'Because I was useful to him. I didn't have a criminal record. I was on the inside now, and Florence is a good place to make contacts with the underworld, especially from Eastern Europe. I'm a Florentine, no criminal record, it was normal for me to have my own little business . . . and with their help I soon built up the right clientele. I helped the money to circulate, sent it on to buy more drugs. It was a nice scene. With my contacts, I sent out five hundred million, even a billion once, which then came back to Zi Turi multiplied — what? Ten times? A hundred times? - as heroin. Put that on the market, and you multiply it again

Ciuffi mentally totted up the figures and, as he thought about the number of years this racket had gone on undisturbed, his eyes widened in astonishment. Zi Turi must have been richer than a lot of Third World countries!

'I see. Now tell us about the foreigners you came in contact with.'

Emilio Zancarotti started to list names of people in various Eastern European countries, supplying details of bank accounts and the ways the money was carried across borders. It was valuable stuff, and Luigi Ciuffi noted it all down religiously. But Zancarotti did not mention Viktor, or the two Albanians he had ended up in prison with.

Finally, before losing his patience, Ferrara decided to go on the offensive. 'Does the name Viktor mean anything to you?'

Emilio Zancarotti raised his hands awkwardly to his forehead, and wiped off the film of sweat which had formed despite the air conditioning. 'Of course it does,' he replied in a disgusted tone. 'It's his fault we ended up inside.'